In a sun-dappled woodland clearing, a little hedgehog and a small owl shared a snack on a mossy log. Between them sat a shiny acorn, gleaming gold in the light.
The acorn rolled — zoom — straight into the prickly brambles. The owl hooted and flapped its wings. The hedgehog stamped its tiny feet. "You made it drop!"
Both turned their backs with a hard sniff. The acorn was gone, swallowed by the brambles. Nothing else was said.
Day one passed. The owl hung upside down from its oak branch, tail swishing. It did not look down at the little hedgehog's mushroom house. Wind whispered through the dry leaves.
Day two came. The hedgehog hopped to the sunny rock where they always shared snacks. The stone was cold and empty. It picked up the acorn — now smooth and dark — and set it beside him, waiting.
A butterfly landed on the acorn, then fluttered away. The hedgehog sat cross-legged and thought: Soon, Oliver. Please come soon.
On day three, a scrap of bark-paper and a stub of blue crayon appeared at the hedgehog's doorstep. Scratch, scratch, scratch — jagged letters formed: SORRY.
Before sunrise, the hedgehog tiptoed to the great oak tree and tucked the crumpled note against the trunk. The owl peeked down, grabbed the note with its beak, unfurled it, and let out a soft hoot.
The hedgehog's quills lifted in surprise. The owl dropped gently to the ground and nudged the old acorn toward the hedgehog with its wing.
The hedgehog picked up the acorn. It was no longer shiny, but it was whole. The two sat together on the mossy log, shoulder to shoulder, and looked at it without a word.
